I got my hair cut yesterday – and by “cut” I mean no more than 1/4″ trimmed off because any more and I’d have separation anxiety from my locks – and I had the following conversation in the mirror with my hairdresser (do we call them that?):
HD: Ugh, I need to get in shape. You must go to the gym a lot. What do you do?
Me: HA. Um, no I don’t go to the gym.
HD: But you’re so fit!
Me: *eyebrows raised and eyes widened* Ha, uhh not really.
HD: Yes you are!
Me: I mean, I run sometimes. But not far, and only if it’s nice out. And I eat a lot of ice cream. Definitely not “fit.”
HD: Hahaha. Oh my gosh, you’re too funny.
I wasn’t kidding. That was a legitimately honest answer. I may not be a whale, but I wouldn’t describe myself as “fit.” Maybe she saw that I was wearing gym clothes and assumed I was coming from the gym – I was not, obviously.
After she finished cutting my hair, I needed ice cream then and there because I started talking about it. I was feeling great with my fresh blow out and was like wow, this girl called me fit. I deserve it. I work hard for this bod (I don’t.) Long story short, this post is brought to you in between bites of chocolate peanut butter cup ice cream. I’d include a picture but there’s not much left.
This got me thinking (you’re welcome for being subjected to the strange inner-workings of my subconscious) about my favorite dessert/treat. I always thought I was more of a baked goods person – specifically, cookies – but after some solid re-evaluation (this isn’t how you spend your time?) I now realize that ice cream is truly my favorite.
There is certainly a time and a place for a cookie (ex: Christmas, any day that ends in “y”) but if I had to choose – like if someone held a gun to my head and said “ICE CREAM OR COOKIE” I’d definitely pick the ice cream, unless they wanted the ice cream, in which case I’d let them have it since they were holding a gun to my head. Now, a warm cookie with ice cream? I think we can all agree that is the absolute ideal, but that’s another post for another time since these shenanigans have gone on long enough.
The moral of the story is that someone incorrectly judged me as a fit person, which is now my favorite type of false judgement. Looking back, it does make sense – my body definitely looked tiny when wrapped in a giant black cape.